I began this letter planning to tell you I could not imagine your grief; but that isn’t true. I do imagine it, over and over. If you were killed, I doubt I should receive a telegram—our friendship has always been too tenuous for others to be aware of it. Still, in my imagination, I receive a telegram. I see your name and think, There goes the man I might have spoken to, had I only been able to open my mouth. You say that what is left of you is not worth much. I can only respond by assuring you it is worth a great deal—to me. Your friend, Gaunt
